The receptionist smiled and proceeded to deliver her patent good-morning-and-how-are-you-today question. Unremarkable until she added, “And what was your name?”
“My name is Dorothy Martin,” I replied, jaw muscles tensed. “And it still is.” To what period of time are you alluding? When I was born I received my name, printed as a legal fact on my certificate of birth, attested to by the doctor who delivered me into my mother’s arms. When I woke up this morning and looked in the mirror it was me that I saw. I was still Dorothy Martin. As far as I know, I continue to embody Dorothy Martin as a human entity, and plan to continue so doing until as far into the future as conveniently possible.
What is it with younger generations’ obliquity? Why must they create an angled offset, a safe distance from some perceived confrontation, if not of distance, then of time? Why must they root their question in the past, where they don’t have to own up to the truth of their own power to ask it?
Why must they enlist my support in performing their job—filling out their form—so we are gathered about our enjoined perception of an IT task, my attention safely diverted from their own real and vulnerable persona? Their face? Their eyes? Their presence daring to assert itself?
Perhaps it is a logical extension of valley-girl speech, where everything isn’t something, but only like something. As if it were something. The sure test for this error of cognition is to substitute “as if it were” for the ever ubiquitous “like.” If it follows as a logical progression of thought, the answer is plain. It’s sad to remark how this verbal crutch has taken over the language, testament to its ability to lower anxiety levels wherever inserted.
Turning to another error of cognition, my own is equally suspect. Why must I analyze commercial conversations, parsing them out for foolish meanings, whether hidden or apparent? It’s no business of mine if a medical receptionist is totally honest, either to herself or to me. What goes on inside the head of another person falls outside the purview of my own. Surely it’s all I can do to police my own level of honesty. Dissecting dialogue suggests its own form of distancing. How can I even begin to relate to another if I am busy critiquing their performance? I need to focus on giving a civil reply to questions and saving my energy for more productive pursuits. If I could actually do something about generational obliquity it might make sense to complain.
The Serenity Prayer addresses separating what we can change and what we cannot, citing as wisdom the ability to know the difference. Good advice!
morethanenoughtruth 